


Adventures in Eggsitting

by Asidian



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Caretaking, Chocobos, Eggs, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Lullabies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 02:29:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10265579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian
Summary: Noctis eyes the egg cradled in the crook of his arm like it's suddenly grown a lot more delicate. After a moment's consideration, he tucks it up under his shirt."Jacket, too," says Prompto, anxious.Up goes the zipper. And the king of Lucis, trying his very best to look put-out and unaffected, cradles the chocobo egg in his arms like it's made of spun glass.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Some silly fluff for the kink meme. Someone asked for:
> 
> "Out on their journey, the boys find an abandoned egg. They're not sure what kind of egg it is but for whatever reason, they decide they can't just leave it. Cue the four of them taking turns caring for it and protecting it- I'd love to see at least one of them keeping it under his shirt to help it stay warm. Maybe they sometimes sleep with the egg between them because it's warm there too?"
> 
> It was too cute to pass up. :)

"Dude," says Prompto for about the fifteenth time. "It's gonna freeze."

"It will not." Noct shifts the object of concern – the egg that will one day hatch a fabled black chocobo chick – to his other elbow.

"But it's not even covered." Prompto has upgraded from trailing to hovering; he's walking all of two feet from Noct's right side, outright fussing over the thing. "What if it's cold?"

"It's got my arm to keep it warm," Noct tells him. "Specs, back me up here."

Ignis gives a thoughtful hum. "It's not likely to actually freeze."

"See?" says Noct.

"That said," Ignis continues. "Certain enzymes require warmth to function properly. It will fail to hatch long before it reaches a temperature that low."

Prompto makes a small, wordless noise of distress.

Gladio snorts a laugh. "You got told, princess."

Noctis eyes the egg cradled in the crook of his arm like it's suddenly grown a lot more delicate. After a moment's consideration, he tucks it up under his shirt.

"Jacket, too," says Prompto, anxious.

Up goes the zipper. And the king of Lucis, trying his very best to look put-out and unaffected, cradles the chocobo egg in his arms like it's made of spun glass.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Noct's voice is deadpan, flat and wry. "I thought this was a creature crossing."

Ignis, ever unflappable, adjusts his glasses. "It is."

"Not much actual crossing going on," Gladio points out, gamely.

It's true. The herd of garula is at a dead standstill in the street, directly in front of the Regalia. Which would be all well and good, but the railing keeps them from pulling off onto the shoulder and going around.

"Maybe they can't read," Prompto suggests, helpfully.

"They're garula," says Noct.

"And the crossing sign has no written component." Ignis indicates the stylized picture of a garula, black on yellow, painted on the sign at the side of the road. He sighs. "Not that that's likely to make it more comprehensible for them."

"Because they're _garula_ ," Noct says again. He reaches up to poke Prompto in the side – gets a twist and a squeal for his efforts.

Ignis raises his voice, just slightly, to make himself heard over the anticipated impending squabble. "In any case, we'd best move them along."

Gladio snorts and stretches. "That's what I said half an hour ago."

"Wait," says Prompto. His hands are raised in the universal tickle-Noct-into-submission pose, but he forgets about retaliation as a thought occurs to him. "What about the egg?"

There's a beat of silence while they consider. Then Ignis offers: "Make a nest in the back seat, and lay something over the top to hold the heat in. We'll make all due effort to hurry back."

So they pool their jackets – nestle the egg in the center, and drape one of Prompto's clean shirts over the top.

"Right," says Noct, when they've finished. "Let's do this."

Doing this consists of four grown men hopping the sides of the Regalia because the garula are packed too thickly for the doors to actually open. Then it consists of some ineffectual shooing, half-hearted shoving, and one particularly surly beast that does not want to be touched.

It rears back, trunk swinging; it takes a lunge at Gladio. And as one, all of the other garula decide that they, too, don't want to be touched.

The stampede goes from zero to alarming in about three seconds.

Ignis calls, "Fall back!" and they do, just in time for the first of the creatures to slam into the Regalia, tipping it briefly up on two wheels.

"The egg!" yells Prompto.

But Gladio's already moving. He vaults a smaller garula, balances for a moment on the Regalia's hood, then dives in. He comes up with a mound of jackets and nearly goes over as another creature slams into the side of the car.

Gladio curses. Then he gets his feet under him and corrects his stance. He leaps into the air like a particularly martial ballerina – comes down behind the railing, where the others are taking cover, and watches as the garula leave their mark on the poor, defenseless car.

"I'm beginning to think," says Ignis, mildly aggrieved, as the last of the creatures disappear into a cloud of dust in the distance some five minutes later, "that we only ever find car trouble when we can't afford the repairs."

"The Six've got it in for your budget, Specs," Noct tells him, wandering up to inspect the car.

It's seen worse days, but only with Prompto behind the wheel.

"Think they've got it in for our chocobo-to-be, too." Prompto peels back a layer of fabric to inspect the thing cradled in Gladio's arms. "Poor thing's had a rough life." He lowers his voice, pitching it for the egg. "You're okay, buddy. Gladio's got you. Don't tell him I said so, but he's kind of a badass."

Gladio snorts, at once both dismissive and amused. "I'll call Cindy," he says, and presses the bundle of cloth into Prompto's arms.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The Six really do have it in for Ignis' budget.

The car repairs come to six thousand and nine gil, reducing their remaining funds to a grand total of two hundred and seven. More concerning even than that, though, is the time they'll lose. Cindy's put her estimate at a full week from now.

Ignis closes his eyes. He rubs the bridge of his nose to ward off the impending headache. He's busy doing the math – counting out caravan stays – when a thought draws him up short.

They hadn't planned to overnight with the chocobo egg.

It needs to stay warm, which is easy enough while they're on the move. Noctis has kept it tucked under his shirt, surprisingly obliging considering his usual aversion to responsibility.

But overnight is another thing entirely.

The egg is fragile enough that any one of them could crush it with a single wrong turn – small enough that they could roll over it without waking.

Prompto sleeps like a toddler, all flailing limbs and shirt hitched up to mid-stomach. Gladio is more sedate, but he's also much heavier; a shifted limb from the larger man would likely do the poor thing in. Noctis sleeps like a dead thing, leaden and unstirring – unless he gets near a source of heat, in which case he clings like a strip of velcro.

Ignis can picture it now: a sad puddle of yolk, dripping between two slumbering forms.

Ignis' own sleep habits are marginally more appropriate. He doesn't thrash; he wakes reliably each morning in the same position in which he drifted off the night before.

And yet, it's a terrible chance to take. He does so dearly wish to see the egg hatch.

Ignis considers his budget again. He runs the numbers.

And when the sun goes down, the egg hangs nestled in a brand new hammock hanging from the caravan's roof, a heating pad to keep it toasty warm.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It's five o'clock in the morning, and everyone's still asleep.

Prompto slips out of his sleeping bag, tucked up on the floor of the caravan next Gladio's. He takes all of ten minutes in the bathroom – wouldn't have even bothered with his hair, except, well, Hammerhead means Cindy.

Then he climbs up on the railing of the cot, careful not wake Noct – ha, as if – and eases the egg down from its hammock.

It's warm to the touch, smooth beneath his careful fingers.

"Hey there, little guy," he whispers, very softly. "Want to go for a walk?"

He carries the egg around the fence's perimeter, again and again, a slow and ambling sort of stroll. Prompto chatters absently while he walks: about how pretty the sky is right now, and how much fun it'll have at the chocobo ranch, and how they're gonna make sure it gets there safe and sound, just watch.

At last, when the sun's up above the horizon and Prompto's walked himself out, he settles in the plastic chair outside the caravan. He pets the egg gently, through his shirt, the way he imagines a mother might soothe a child with nightmares.

That's where Ignis finds him, half an hour later, when he steps outside with a fresh cup of coffee.

Prompto's singing, some silly nonsense tune, but his voice is high and clear, surprisingly on pitch.

Ignis says, "You're up early."

Prompto quirks a smile. "Noct's been stealing all the quality egg time. Gotta sneak mine in."

Ignis settles into a chair beside him – sets his coffee cup on the table. It's barely in place before Prompto snakes his hand out to seize the cup and help himself to a sip.

"Thanks, Iggy," he says brightly, ignoring the warning look Ignis shoots his way.

Prompto, unabashed, hands the cup back over, and Ignis sniffs, then takes a long, pointed swallow. When he sets his coffee down again – much closer to himself, this time – he says, "I didn't know you sang."

Prompto's eyebrows go up. "Dude. I sing RPG victory music every time we thrash something that should have thrashed us in a fight."

Ignis lifts one eyebrow, pointed and delicate. "Hardly the same."

He expects some sort of retort to that – expects Prompto to bring up that ridiculous chocobo song he's so fond of, perhaps – but instead the boy only shrugs.

"Just figured the little guy needed a lullaby." The beat of silence is just long enough to be uncertain. "Kind of sad, y'know? I mean, he lost his mom."

Ignis is in the middle of lifting the coffee cup for another sip, but he pauses at those words.

Prompto's home life is – and has always been, since the day Ignis met him – off limits.

Infrequently, the boy will mention parents who seem, perpetually, to be away on business. Less frequently still, he'll get a wistful, far-away sort of look when someone else recounts a fond childhood memory.

He's wearing that look now, distant and melancholy – but even as Ignis watches, he shakes the mood away, bounding to his feet like an oversized puppy. "Hey," says Prompto. "There any of that coffee left? I'm calling dibs."

He makes a beeline for the caravan door, disappearing inside – pokes his head out a second later, all sunny grin, to say, "I'll let you have a sip of mine, kay? Quid pro whatsit."

"Quo," Ignis calls after him, idly, and is met with the sound of the caravan door slapping carelessly closed.

 

* * *

 

 

The little guy, it turns out, is a little girl.

They find out two weeks later, when Wiz calls them to come and meet their adopted not-so-egg-anymore.

The car trip's filled with bickering over names, with bets on how many pictures Prompto will take, with Ignis, to the shock of everyone present, driving five miles above the speed limit.

Then they're at the ranch, and Prompto outright squeals. "Look at her. Just look at her. She's the cutest thing ever."

Gladio reaches over to scritch the chocobo on the cotton-candy-soft tuft of feathers on her head.

"I guess she's okay," he says, just to see Prompto swell up, indignant, like an angry gigantoad.

"No," says Noct, levelly. "I think Prom's got it right this time." He regards the ball of black fluff. "That thing is objectively the cutest creature ever to walk, swim, or fly across the face of Eos."

"Come now," says Ignis. "Cuter than the cat that took such a liking to you at Galdin Quay?"

"Cuter," says Noct.

"Cuter than that yellow puffball at the Vesperpool?" prods Gladio.

"Way cuter!" says Prompto. He's sitting on the ground, now, right up beside the chick. She flaps her tiny wings and says "kweh" when he zooms the camera in for a close-up.

"Well then," Ignis says, smiling softly down at them. "I suppose if she's outdone her immediate frontrunners, she does indeed take the prize."

"Lucky bird," says Noct. "Can't even run, and she's got a medal already."

But she doesn't – not yet.

Not until the next morning, when Ignis wakes early to set a small carved disc against the chocobo's enclosure. It's all of dark horn, a hunt prize repurposed, and it features a small, black ball with nubby wings. "Cutest," says the text curled across the bottom, in as neat a hand as could be managed, with only a single night to carve.


End file.
